As Rocky sobbed his heart out, his phone kept buzzing, but he was not in the mood to talk to anyone then. He pulled it out and tossed it far away from him. In the Wendover's mansion, Angela and the other workers were really at their wits' end, with Clara's persistent questions,
"Have you reached my son yet? Is he still not picking up?" Clara asked successively, not even giving Angela time to respond to the first. Clara's voice was a paper-thin whisper, trembling like dry leaves in the wind, which would have been strange to hear some time past, but not on this day. Her eyes, once sharp and commanding, were now sunken and hollow, clouded with something that went beyond age—something unnatural.
